The Chosen: Strangetown, 1985 Part II
Strangetown, 1985
Yema da nooha
Yakadooba wow
Washa neeba zow
The power of the full moon rushed through Olive as she recited the words from memory. It had taken many months, but finally she was going to do what she never thought she'd be able to do. Soon her mother would rejoin her side.
The candles flickered, which Olive knew meant the spirit of magic was with her. She smiled, the power crackling under her skin. She had chosen the local cemetery as her location for the ritual - it was only fitting. It was a dreary place, especially the abandoned house that sat right next to it. But graveyards never bothered Olive, and the house almost had a certain charm to it. Maybe one day she'll try and buy it from the Local Council, fix it up and call it home. But that day wasn't today. Today was the day Lerato Muenda rose from the dead.
Kneeling within the circle she had drawn with salt, Olive filled her mother's ancient goblet (a family heirloom apparently) with distilled water. She then mixed in the herbs, vampire blood (which she purchased on the black market) and werewolf venom (another black market item). Finally, she took the dagger that matched the goblet and sliced her finger. All rituals required sacrifice, and in this one it was her blood - fresh, and related to that of the deceased. She allowed a few drops into the mixture, then stood up and started chanting again.
The wind picked up, whipping dangerously around her. Olive closed her eyes and allowed nature to move around her and through her as she continued to chant. The magic in the air strengthened, turned darker with each chant. Suddenly, one of the remaining windows of the abandoned house shattered, and almost immediately following it the wind died down. The magic faded and in its place the air grew very cold.
Olive opened her eyes, expecting to find a familiar face before her. Instead she was met with the gaze of a hooded figure. She screamed and stumbled backwards, not having expected the creature to appear out of nowhere and so very close to what was her personal space. Unfortunately, her stumble caused her to leave the circle and the candles immediately died when her hold on the magic faded. Still shocked, Olive collapsed on her behind. The cloaked figure tilted its head to the side.
“Dear, oh, dear,” the cloaked figure hummed. “What have we here? Another necromancer? You seem to breed like rabbits.”
The cloaked figure made a noise in the back of its throat to highlight its disgust.
Olive stared at the figure before her, her eyes wide.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
The cloaked figure snorted. “What do I want? Why do you humans always ask that question?”
Olive frowned. “Then what should I ask?”
The figure seemed surprised by her question, but he soon recovered and chuckled. “You shouldn't ask anything. You should just fall on your knees and beg for mercy.”
“Why?” Olive asked.
“Because the Dead belongs to me. And you phony witches better withdraw your nasty green claws from my realm. I do not appreciate humans trying to play Watcher.”
Olive gaped at the figure before her, recognition finally settling in her gut. She scrambled to her feet, prepared to fight for her mother's soul if she had to.
“Death,” she whispered.
Death laughed. “And so the simol drops! However, I have not been called that in a long time. I must admit it's...refreshing.”
Olive frowned. “Who calls money simols these days? What are you, from the dark ages?”
Death seemed further amused by her question, because he just laughed again.
“Youngsters,” he hummed. “I am old, witch. Much older than you. Now, will you kneel and beg for mercy?”
“No.”
Death tilted his head to the side. “No?”
“I am resurrecting my mother, whether you like it or not.”
All humour melted away, and while Olive could not determine Death's emotion by his face (for he had no face), his stiff stance told her everything.
“You will regret challenging me, little girl,” Death hissed.
Olive held her head high. “And you'll regret challenging me, old man.”
Death blanched, then burst out laughing again. “Old man! What on earth makes you think I am a man?”
“Your attitude,” was Olive's deadpan reply.
Death snickered: “I am not technically of any sex, but I suppose I identify to the male gender. How...intuitive of you.”
“Thank you.”
Death moved around her, the cold air moving with him. Olive stiffened as he looked her over. She watched him as he moved, her senses on high alert. She wasn't going to allow him to get anything on her, not if she could do the same. So she pushed her magic forward and found it bouncing right back - almost like a powerful wall had been erected around him. She pursed her lips.
Death chuckled. “Impressive.”
“What is?” she demanded.
“Your magic. It is powerful and very deep.”
“Wish I could compliment yours, but you deflected me.”
Death stopped circling her, and instead faced her directly. “You don't want to dig so deep, little girl. My essence will kill you. After all, I am Death.”
“Why haven't you killed me yet?” Olive changed the subject. He was yet to make any move to follow through with his threat. She was starting to think that perhaps he was all talk, and didn't really do anything to necromancers who crossed into his territory.
“Are you all talk and no action?” Olive taunted.
She expected him to lash out, to get angry. Instead he laughed again.
“You remind me of someone, with that spitfire of yours. It's amusing,” he hummed.
Olive blanched. “What?”
Death chuckled and moved away, the cold air leaving with him. “I shall spare you tonight, Olive Muenda. But know this, the next time you try to take what is mine, I shall take something of yours.”
“I'll gladly give my life for my mother!” Olive yelled back.
“I wasn't talking about your life,” Death whispered, and then he disappeared into the darkness.